Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and originally to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But we all know Sherlock really belongs to John, now don't we? ;)

WARNINGS: Jam biscuits, lemon tea, heart-shaped hot tubs, crude cricket references-oh and kissing! Lots and lots of kissing!

A/N: I was gonna go with 3 times or 5 times Sherlock kissed John, but the kissing went on and on and on that I had to rethink my title. It's not that long really, it's actually short compared to the others I had in mind. =P

Un-beta'd because I don't have one. *hint hint* All mistakes are my own.

Oh, and, if anyone wants to read the Chinese version you can right here 221dnet.211. 30i. cn/ bbs/ forum. php ?mod=viewthread&tid=3372 (unspace the spaces) translated by the awesome lhj6080

Ennn-joyyy!

Fic:

The first time it happens, it being Sherlock sticking his tongue down John's throat, they were on a case. A favor for Mycroft, which was disturbing enough by itself without adding the underground drug smuggling ring to the picture.

And when he says 'underground', he means, literally, underground. Under the ground. Excessive dirt, ankle deep mud, low on oxygen, the works.

Not the most romantic setting, but the kiss wasn't meant to be romantic in any way.

So there they were, right in the middle of a rather large drug smuggling ring. So large, in fact, that they blended easily enough amongst the crowd of dirty and beefy lowlifes.

"Act like you belong" Sherlock had whispered in his ear as soon as they had got here. So John had done his best impression of a drug smuggler, all shifty eyed and twitchy. Trying his best to look intimidating instead of intimidated.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened but one moment he was playing the part of a hardened criminal, the next he was being shoved hard against the nearest wall and his lips parted open by Sherlock's tongue so very softly and tentatively that John couldn't help but wonder if it was the same man doing both actions.

Man. That set off loud alarms and flashing red lights in his head. And if that wasn't enough, add yellow police tape and danger-volatile substance-contents are fragile and may break-enter at your own risk and every warning sign John had ever seen because; Sherlock.

At this point, pulling back seemed a good idea, so did pushing Sherlock away. Except pushing forward and pulling Sherlock closer seemed better.

So John simply stood there, doing absolutely nothing. Feeling more than a little lightheaded, but he blamed that on the poor ventilation of underground tunnels. He thought he could hear shouts and scuffling in the background, but it felt like he was cut off from the rest of the world, and it was just him and Sherlock in a vacuum of time and space. Together forever.

Too bad forever didn't last too long in John's case. Sherlock abruptly pulled back and John was yanked back to reality where it had only been 40 seconds and police officers were swarming the underground tunnels arresting smugglers left and right. All except for Lestrade who was standing and staring at the two of them with his mouth hanging open in disbelief. John took a moment to revel at the fact that neither sergeant Donovan nor Anderson were here, though he felt he was going to follow the inspector's lead very soon if Sherlock didn't explain what the hell just happened.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock did just that.

"You were attracting a lot of attention with your criminal mastermind impression so I had to divert it before Lestrade's people came"

"Oh, right, good, I mean, fine, whatever"

And so ended any thought of a future acting career and a future romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he had given any thought to acting, and Sherlock Holmes and relationships are impossible even to put in the same sentence together, but honestly, who hadn't thought about it?

All he could think now was, when did the warning bells suddenly turn into wedding bells?

John had thought it best to pretend the whole thing never happened for both their sakes, though mainly for his own sanity. Or what was left of it by now. No doubt Sherlock had probably deleted the scene from his memory bank within minutes of it happening. John didn't know why this knowledge hurt him like it did.

But the more important fact was that things were normal in 221b-well as normal as it gets with Sherlock Holmes at a flat mate; body parts in the kitchen, experiments in the living room, and a particularly memorable occasion with a white rat in a maze, i.e. John's bedroom. So yes, normal. At least it was until Sherlock kissed him again.

Oh, yes.

They were having quite a nice evening with Chinese takeaway and lots of laughter when Sherlock leaned over. John giggling, thinking Sherlock wanted to whisper something funny shuffled closer. What he did not expect was for Sherlock to tip his chin upwards with his forefinger and press their lips together chastely.

This time, almost reflexively, John pulled back and just as quickly regretted doing so. Sherlock's lips had felt so soft, moist and warm. And well, nice.

"Why?" The question cropped up unbidden.

"You had noodles on your chin"

John nodded. Valid excuse. Who doesn't kiss off stray noodles, as opposed to handing napkins or pointing it out? Yes, all very normal indeed.

Sarcasm aside, the most bizarre and ridiculous things were normal to Sherlock. We're talking about a man who made a nuclear deterrent and put it in the fridge next to the tomato sauce. So maybe this was just another part of his oh-so-fun personality that had been in hibernation for the entire time John had been with him.

For the rest of the night, John kept his face angled towards Sherlock in hopes that he'll kiss him again. But Sherlock never did.

Not that night.

Mrs. Hudson brought them jam biscuits and lemon tea over to the flat regularly. John appreciated the sentiment. Really, he did. But there were only so much biscuits a man could consume before swearing off of them for life.

Especially since he was alone with the biscuits, Sherlock adamantly refusing any, instead sipping the bitter tea John avoided like liquid plague.

Mrs. Hudson urged both of them to try what the other was having like she always did. John usually ended swallowing some of the tea trying not to pull too much of a face, while Sherlock didn't bother even looking up at the piled plate of jam biscuits.

"Just a wee taste, boys…" Mrs. Hudson was saying and John was just about to give in when Sherlock stepped in between him and the dreaded lemon tea, smoothly saying.

"That can be arranged, don't you think John?"

Before John could even begin to formulate a response, his mouth was taken hostage by Sherlock's probing tongue. And the rest was a pleasant swirl of jam, lemon and traces of vanilla, tea and something very uniquely Sherlock.

"Well, I'll be off then boys" Mrs. Hudson's voice had taken a slightly higher pitch than normal. "Be sure to enjoy yourselves"

John gasped for breath when Sherlock released him.

"Wh-?" He didn't even have the chance to finish asking, when Sherlock rushed headlong into an explanation.

"Mrs. Hudson suggested we get a taste of what's in each other's mouth. The jam biscuits are quite delectable; I can see your penchant for it"

And just like that, he went to start up a new experiment with the left over biscuits muttering something about mould and penicillin.

John replayed their landlady's last words of abrupt farewell in his head. She couldn't have possibly meant what he thinks she meant, could she? 'Course not. Don't be ridiculous Watson, he mentally chided himself.

His relief was short lived, however, when said landlady yelled up the stairs.

"Oh, and remember to be safe!"

Blinking wide eyed against the flurry of unwanted thoughts and images his traitorous mind was forming, John took a sip of lemon tea.

Hmmm…maybe this stuff wasn't so bad after all.

He had informed Mrs. Hudson that whatever she thought was happening, wasn't happening. The old dear had nodded and smiled understandingly to which John had been incredibly grateful for until she remarked that she understood their concerns, the world was still such an ignorant place and of course she wouldn't dream of telling anyone…

…And of course Sherlock didn't help matters by pecking him on the corner of his mouth as he raced to the door talking a mile a minute about another case of his brother's.

Being a military man, John was trained to constantly be on his guard, as if he was going to be attacked any time, any place. Always stay one step in front of the enemy. That's the motto.

This…uh, situation was slightly different. For one, the attacks were not unpleasant, in fact they were quite the opposite, the far opposite. Second, Sherlock wasn't his enemy, he was his friend. John may even go as far as to call him his best friend.

He had never had a best friend before but he was pretty sure that best friends didn't kiss. Not like that.

John should probably stop it before it got too far, but the word 'stop' never made it out of his mouth, in fact it may have dropped out of his vocabulary altogether. And since whatever powers that be were so very determined that his life be some action adventure romantic comedy mishmash, John might as well just go with it.

Later that evening, Mycroft's case solved, Sherlock was playing Carmen on the violin. Quite well, he had to admit. John sat on the sofa, wine glass in hand, just enjoying the moment for what it was, when Sherlock halted mid note and dropped beside John on the sofa, seemingly out of impulse than anything else.

He leaned in slowly, giving John plenty of time to turn his head, pull away, or run screaming from the flat. Take your pick. But John did none of the above. In fact, he may actually have let his mouth slack and lips parted slightly.

He blamed the wine.

And it didn't stop there. And there was absolutely no excuse of wine on the countless other times.

Oh, and when he asked why, Sherlock had reasons. Multiples on occasion. Ranging from 'it's a cold day' to 'you're lips were dried up' to 'bored!'. His excuses were often inventive and made perfect sense, for Sherlock that is, but never what John wanted to hear.

It took 3 more kisses for John to realize he was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And 4 more on top of those to realize those feelings weren't returned.

Not that John was keeping count or anything. Nope. No way. Absolutely not.

The 19th time was in front of Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson and half the Yard. As a doctor, John had never encountered a case of someone dying in embarrassment, so he'd be the first in medical history.

Sherlock had hit a road bump in the deductive process and John had said something 'illuminating' without even meaning to. Sherlock got that look in his eyes when he figured something out, 'oh, OH!' and dragged him closer and kissed him quickly with an audible smack and practically skipped his way to interrogate the step-sister-in-law leaving John to face everyone alone. Some officers coughed uncomfortably, others moved away not so discreetly, Donovan and Anderson just stared like he'd sprouted two more heads and tentacles, so much that John felt compelled to check if he had. Lestrade dragged him into the corner, and for one overtly weird moment of his life John thought he was going to kiss him too. But when Lestrade's mouth opened, it was not for a kiss.

"What the hell?"

"I-"

"No, seriously, what the hell?"

"He-"

"What the-"

"Greg!" John stopped him mid-tirade "I haven't a clue"

Now that seemed like a very bad punch line for a very bad detective joke, but Lestrade took it in his stride.

"I thought you said you two weren't a couple! I asked! I specifically asked and you said no"

True to his word, he had. In fact, it was one of the very first things he had asked John, followed closely by; 'how much is he paying you?'

Yes, his first days had been real charming.

"We weren't! I mean we aren't-! I don't-!" John threw his hands up in the air in sheer frustration "I don't know, okay!?

Lestrade, realizing John was close to his breaking point, held up his hands in surrender.

"We just…kiss" John revealed hoarsely, his throat feeling unaccountably dry. "That's all. Nothing more."

"Do you, I dunno, talk about it?" Lestrade interjected after too long a period of silence.

"Not really, no"

"D'you…" The detective inspector coughed and nodded to where Sherlock was harassing the unfortunate woman "Do you want me to-"

"Oh, no, God no!" Why didn't the earth open up and swallow him when he needed it to? "I'm handling it"

"Oh really, and how's that?" Did he mention that Lestrade was good at interrogating people?

John tried to think of an answer than wasn't a variation of 'ignoring it and hoping it'll go away'. Coming up with none, he shrugged half-heartedly.

From the distance, Sherlock nodded at them. The sister-in-law was talking non-stop, too much for t to be a confession, so she must be pleading her innocence.

"I'm handling it" John repeated and made to go over but Lestrade stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"John, just-you-don't let him hurt you, okay? And I don't mean physically- you know what I mean?" Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, an obvious sign of his discomfort.

"Why, Greg, I didn't know you cared!" John let some humor seep back into his voice.

"Just making sure you don't kill each other, that's all, Watson" Lestrade brushed him off gruffly. "Who'll solve my cases then?"

Then the step-sister-in-law turned suspect tried to make a break for it and all hell broke loose for a few minutes. When they came back up to earth, that particular mystery was solved, but the mystery of Sherlock's kissing remained as it was. Toying the hell out of John's emotions.

The game was on again. Yet another favor for Mycroft.

It was beginning to scare John a little just how much favors Sherlock seems to be doing for Mycroft these days. It's like Sherlock's planning something big that he need's his big brother's help on (like taking over the world for instance), hence the repeated favors.

Here's the list of things John learned during his trip at Colchester. One, Ministers and their families were quite fond of skinny dipping, Two, the Colchester Spa Resort was quite fond of pinching the Ministers and co. valuables which included clothing and leaving them very, very naked in a hot tub.

Successful as ever, Sherlock managed to uncover their belongings and 3 separate affairs which John preferred not to go in detail to. It was like-just, no-god no!

They split up when it came to searching for the manager, apparently the mastermind of the whole plot according to the rest of the detained employees. As he walked close by a heart shaped hot tub, his mind drifted to the subject of what else was in there apart from bubbling water. As it turned out, he got the chance to find out second hand.

Now as dramatic and less humiliating it would be to say someone, the manager quite possibly, pushed him in, but in truth, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, slipped.

Dead soldiers rolled in their graves.

In his defense, the tiled floor had been very wet. With water and other things he didn't want to think too much about, even when he was drowning in the hot tub that was undoubtedly filled with the 'other things'

Though obviously that wasn't the foremost of his haze of panicked thoughts as he thrashed and kicked in the too small to swim but too deep to not drown hot tub.

'…Air…need…Sherlock…can't breathe…help….Sherlock…SherlockSherlockSHERLOCK'

He must have blacked out at some point. When he came to, he could only make out the blurred features of dark curly hair and green orbs before he coughed and choked as his body tried to force out water and any 'other stuff' he might have swallowed from his trip down the hot tub.

He groaned, both at that thought and the burning ache in his chest. His bare chest. Cool fingertips were lightly placed over his skin. John frowned as he pondered the loss of his shirt and the aching. Taking far too much time he finally worked out that someone must have performed CPR on him.

He blinked, forcing his vision to clear, then groaned again.

Of course who had that somebody be but Sherlock? Sherlock who had been kissing him regularly, what's one more kiss? A kiss of life.

Being a doctor, in the army no less, he'd given it countless times to people close to death. There were times he almost had to give it to Sherlock too. But he'd never been on the receiving end of it. And if statistics were anything to go by, not even half survived receiving CPR.

John winced at the prospect of having 'Death by drowning in a hot tub' on his death certificate. Or, god forbid, on his tombstone. He could just see it now; 'Here Lies John H. Watson. Beloved son, brother, friend and partner in solving crime. The hot tub was out to get him. He will be sorely missed.'

This was the point where John started laughing, and didn't stop. Couldn't stop. It was all just too ridiculous; death by hot tub, kissed by Sherlock, favor for Mycroft. These were things that just didn't happen. Because they were all too unbelievably ridiculous to be true. But they had, all in one day no less. So he kept laughing.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see uniforms backing up, alternately looking at him and each other, uncertain what to do about his sudden hysteria.

But Sherlock stayed crouched beside him, murmuring gently into his ear.

"John, it's alright, it's okay now" His hands were moving from John's head to his cheeks to his neck and back up to his head. Up close, John could see his dark hair was in wet ringlets and droplets of water clinging on to his face. Which totally didn't help calm his thoughts from racing all over the place or his erratic breathing for that matter.

Had Sherlock fallen in too? Maybe the same one as John. Why else would he be wet as John was? It's not like Sherlock had jumped into save him…right? Was that an ice cream van's music he could hear? No? It sounded familiar though. Nee noo nee noo nee noo. Harry got ice cream on her ambulance ride after she broke her leg in Little League. She didn't share. Nee noo. He was floating through air. Vroom vroom. Was he on a race track? He didn't even like racing. Nee noo nee noo. Racing ice cream vans. Probably just the TV. Sherlock, can turn down the volume please. No reply. No change in the volume either. Sherlock, turn it down!

"We're not home John, we're on an ambulance"

Oh!

That made more sense. Near death experience by heart shaped hot tub and all.

Wait Sherlock came on the ambulance with him? What about the manager?

"Lestrade's taking care of it"

Why was Sherlock answering his thoughts?

"Because you're thinking out loud"

Oh. Oh.

"Why are the lights dimming?" He thought out loud again, consciously, this time.

"Because you're passing out"

Oh.

His hand was being held, and his hair stroked as the darkness enveloped him and his senses faded into nothing.

Before he went completely under, he felt a familiar pair of lips hover above his, before grazing them lightly, barely there at all, and heard a whisper that didn't completely reach his ears.

'… ve you'

Things moved swiftly up the inappropriateness scale with 'the adventure of the heart shaped hot tub' as John had blogged to the world, minus the kissing scenes. He and Sherlock were having a slight disagreement, by which he meant a raging row, funnily enough about the topics of his blogs that Sherlock complained were getting unimaginative, repetitive and duller by each post. True, all his recent posts all started with 'the adventure of…' but John had changed his topic style specifically to please Sherlock-well what damn business was it of his anyway!?

He had stormed off to take a shower, making sure to slam the bathroom door behind him. The sound bounced off the walls and the anger left John to quickly be replaced by hurt and humiliation. Sherlock often made remarks about his choice of topics, so John had made them less innovative and more generic. He had thought Sherlock would approve. Why John would ever need his approval, or hope to ever get it, he didn't know.

Sighing, John stripped bare and got under the lukewarm spray of the shower, working its way up to warmth. He hadn't been under a minute before the door barged open and Sherlock rushed inside. And by in, John didn't just mean inside the bathroom, but inside the cubicle with him.

"Sherlock!" John very much did not squeak. "I'm in the shower!"

"Yes, I noticed" Sherlock glanced pointedly around the small stall they were squeezed together in.

"I'm naked!" John protested hotly, but wished he could take it back when Sherlock in turn glanced pointedly at the lower half of his body.

"Yes" He drawled "I've noticed that too"

John felt his entire body, including certain special parts, flush crimson and his heart hammered somewhere near his throat as Sherlock tightened his grip on John's right shoulder, carefully avoiding any pressure on his left, John noticed distractedly.

"I didn't mean to upset you earlier" Sherlock sounded earnest. John made to say he wasn't upset even though he was and they both knew he was, but Sherlock placed a finger on his lips. "I only wanted to discourage you from thinking you need to change your style of writing on my behalf"

It was…touching, for the lack of a less inappropriate word. John might have been pleasantly surprised if not for the wet and nakedness, the blatant violation of personal space, and who or whatever controlling this whole scenario that decided; 'hey, why not add a little kissing to the mix?'.

"Don't ever change who you are, John" Sherlock leaned closer, his breath warm on John's face, causing goosebumps to break out on his skin "Not for anyone." His finger slid from John's mouth and came to rest at his chest "Least of all for me" John didn't have the chance contradict that statement because Sherlock replaced his finger with his lips.

The water continued spray in the background. And John wondered if this was what kissing in the rain felt like. He'd never done that, not even with a girl. The intimacy made him feel oddly vulnerable and laid bare, his insides exposed and poked and prodded, which his military instincts rebelled against. But his human ones reveled in the warmth. But so warm, so intense that it was scorching, burning…hurting.

Or maybe it was just the shower water heating up.

Hey, if Sherlock could make excuses about the causes of kissing him, he sure as hell could make excuses for its effects.

Apart from making John have more confidence in his blog titles and giving him an acute phobia of shower cubicles, their encounter did little to clear up their screwed up relationship. In fact, it may have made it worse than ever. By that John means, he had tried not to openly gawk at Sherlock's form in the morning, bed sheet or no bed sheet, in the past, nowadays he just tried not to drool too much while staring.

He wasn't the only one doing the staring, since Sherlock had taken to kissing him in all places public, much to John's utter mortification.

Like when they were at Bart's morgue the other day.

For all her shyness and nervous habit of rambling, John liked Molly. She was, in a word; sweet. And one of the few people, John could count with a hand, able to put up with Sherlock Holmes. Though most of their interactions ended with Molly in tears and some worse with false hope, she never stopped coming back to him.

Sherlock had been a perfect gentleman, by which John meant, he didn't ignore Molly too much and limited his deductions to less embarrassing, personal things. Baby steps, John had thought then. But now? Now, he thought he should've known it was too good to be true.

Because Sherlock kissed him. Again. In front of Molly. And left him. Again. With Molly.

There was a word for situations like these and moments when you accidentally stub your thumb with a hammer.

Alone in the lab with Molly, John expected there to be awkward silence, rambling words or even tears but what he did not expect was for Molly to hug him, if not somewhat awkwardly, and whisper "I'm happy for you". There was disappointment, and yes, hurt, but also an air of sincerity. Molly meant what she said, with all her heart.

John was once again struck by sheer sweetness and niceness that was Molly Hooper. Here she was; the mortician with a massive crush on a man whose massive intellect was only surpassed by his massive ego who is blatantly ignorant of her feelings as he is of the solar system, yet continues to lead her on without any intention of doing so, and inevitably hurting her in the process.

John could relate, so he hugged her back.

John did wonder some of the time-maybe most of the time…oh, alright! All the time, if all this was some bizarre experiment. Measuring the coagulation of saliva after kissing. Determining the physical and emotional responses to kissing. How many kisses a person can take before they descend into imminent madness. John didn't know but was certain he was close to that number.

But the point was, if this really was an experiment, he was all for it. He had no problem with kissing for science. It's just that he would've appreciated some informed consent, although it may spoil the data.

Usually at this point in his train of thoughts, John would stop and decide he was suffering from overexposure to Sherlock Holmes to be thinking like that and go back to happily avoiding the kissing elephant in the room.

…That didn't come out quite right.

When he wasn't being kissed by Sherlock, or thinking about being kissed by Sherlock, which was a damn small amount of time considering, he was answering questions about being kissed by Sherlock. There, he said it, his life now literally revolved around Sherlock kissing him.

John used to categorize his acquaintances as 'army buddies', 'St. Barts students', Harry's girlfriends', 'his girlfriends', and so on. Nowadays, because apparently there was no one who didn't know, it simply divided into 'people-who've-seen-Sherlock-kiss-John' and 'people-who-have-heard-it-from-other-sources'

Mike Stamford fell into the latter category.

Looking back on it, John should've known something was up. Stamford didn't have a habit of inviting people out to drinks on a weekday much less at 3 pm.

They spent a few minutes going over the good ole days as per usual, though John could sense that Stamford was keen to move the conversation to another direction. Little something he picked up from Sherlock.

It was a pity he couldn't have picked up a little more to have the foreknowledge of the exact direction the conversation was heading towards.

"So…er, John, you and Sherlock, um…are you two…" He gestured awkwardly with his hands, making faces to match.

See the thing is, Sherlock has rubbed off on him in many ways, except one very particular way that John'd rather not go into. The point being, he's picked up very many 'little somethings' like the science of deductions and the science of seduction and, as the situation now called for it, the science of deflection.

"Are we… ? What, Mike? Flatmates? Londoners? Brits? Human beings?" Much to Stamford's growing discomfort. "Fond of jam biscuits and lemon tea?"

"You know what, never mind" Stamford muttered hastily and ordered another round of drinks, on him.

Hours later, John sauntered out the pub, feeling very satisfied and not the least bit guilty at how well he'd handed the situation when his phone rang. Distracted by his victory, he forgot to check the caller ID. Big mistake.

"Soooo Johnnn…John-Johny" His sister drunkenly slurred at him "Whas'is I hear, you swingin' your baaalls for the other teeeam?" The rest was dissolved in a flurry of giggles. John hung up, mentally berating himself for not expecting this. What gay sister wouldn't be interested in torturing her brother in the middle of his mid-life sexual identity crisis?

There were a few minutes of blessed peace that was until Harry through her drunken haze managed to find the texting option.

ure,. ,.othher teasmbaallas?a

swiiinginging,blllllas

John waded through more of Harry's barely legible texts, only able to make out a lot of crude cricket references, a particularly memorable one being;

Puttiing uer,,batr inhda.,other temsa;baaalls

John very calmly turned off his phone, put it in his jacket, and banged his head against the nearest brick wall.

Again and again and again and…

His resulting headache from playing head-butt with the brick wall lasted the rest of the week.

Whoever said that unrequited love passed with time had never loved unrequitedly or loved Sherlock Holmes unrequitedly. Time seemed to make it harder. Sherlock kissing him at random intervals sure as hell didn't make it any easier. It felt like cutting over an open wound. Repeatedly.

Yes, ouch.

But the endorphins released by his brain made it impossible for him to resist doing it again and again to himself. Kind of like an addict. Maybe cocaine is a better metaphor really.

John would've laughed at the irony if he didn't feel like crying. And not a one-perfect-tear crying, but outright-uncontrollable-bawling, runny-nose, streaming eyes, rocking-back-and-forth, hitting-the-ground-with -fists-you get the idea, crying.

So, laughing? Bad idea. How bad? Very.

As far as John could tell, there was no rhyme and reason to Sherlock's kisses. He kissed John in the flat, in crime scenes, on favors for Mycroft or in the middle of the supermarket on those rare occasions John managed to drag him grocery shopping.

On good days and bad days, and hell if John didn't feel like he was in a marriage.

Sherlock kissed him between violin concertos, dissecting guinea pigs, dissecting cadavers. John would've been led to believe dissecting turned him on but Sherlock did not seem inclined to take it any further than just kissing. Which somehow bothered John so much more than the kissing did.

He even kissed John once in the middle of deducing and Sherlock Holmes lets nothing, repeat nothing, interrupt his deductive process.

It had gone up to the point that Sherlock was kissing him 2-3 times a day on average, and neither of them were willing to do anything about it or even god forbid, talk about it. Maybe John should start thinking about moving out of the flat. Just him. On his own. Alone. The broken shell of a man he was before he met Sherlock Holmes.

Somehow the thought of that hurt more than the unrequited feelings ever could.

"Are you blind, John?"

John never complained-much-about Mycroft's odd habit of turning up wherever he was at, but the clinic seemed a bit excessive. Still, the question distracted him.

"What, sorry?"

"Are you blind?" The older man poked the tip of his umbrella on the patient's chair, nose wrinkled in distaste, as if the very idea of sitting there puts him off. Not that it was any different from his usual 'bow down, simple peasant' attitude, but John couldn't help but feel annoyed. He certainly didn't ask to be stalked at his office by Mycroft.

"Er, no, not to my knowledge"

The British Government let out a long suffering sigh.

"I was not referring to your physical state. It's a common enough phrase; to be blind of something"

"What do you mean, blind of something-what?"

"I'm not going to describe to you what I can see. You need to prescribe yourself a pair of glasses, Dr. Watson, and see for yourself"

And that was the last of a very long list of straws.

"What is with you Holmes brothers!? Always so bloody cryptic and mysterious" John ranted "Can't you be like normal people and say; 'Oh John, my brother's is trying to tell you something' instead of talking about blindness and glasses, or, or; 'Oh John, I'm in love with you' instead of kissing me at every given opportunity! Why can't you just bloody give it to me straight!?"

Mycroft arched his eyebrows which only served to fuel John's frustration, normal and otherwise.

"If you love someone, you ask them out for dinner, spend time with them, you give them subtle signs like winking or holding hands or, or, or…"

John trailed off realizing that Sherlock had done all of the above and more. John remembered the going out and staying in and the banter, giggling like a teenage pair, fighting like an old married couple, oh, and the kissing. Very subtle that.

"Oh my...Oh G-" He stammered as realization dawned on him and heard himself for the first time since he started speaking.

'Oh John, I'm in love with you'

"God, why didn't he just say someth-"

"Well, did you? You never said no so he didn't stop. You never said yes so he didn't take it further, worried his affections were one sided" Mycroft looked straight at John "You're not the only blind fool, John"

Yes, like Mycroft said, John had been blind. A blind fool. A blind fool in love with another blind fool.

Well, at least you can't say they had nothing in common.

In all Sherlock's and his cases, in Afghanistan, even in medical school, John Watson always performed best under pressure. And boy was he under a lot of pressure right now.

"Sarah!" John announced over the intercom, gathering his things "I'm taking a sick day!"

"Sick with what?" Sarah's concerned voice came back at him. They'd been over for months but they've stayed close friends. Which was why John didn't hesitate in replying;

"Love sick"

Before he ran out the door with his bag, he paused to thank Mycroft but instead what came out his mouth was;

"Why did you do this…?" for me? For him? "…for us"

Mycroft coughed uncomfortably, his umbrella hanging still for once on his arm.

"Repayment of a favor. Quite a number of them in fact."

John was silent for awhile.

"It's spreading, you know." He said finally.

"Pardon?"

"The blindness."

And with that he left the clinic and headed home.

"Afternoon John, you're home earl-mmmph!"

And John was kissing him. Just like that. Into the kiss he poured all his frustration and confusion and every last bit of his love. If this was the last kiss he ever shared with Sherlock Holmes, he wanted it to be memorable.

"Why?" Sherlock almost whispered post-kissing and John gave him the answer he'd wanted to hear each and every time he asked Sherlock the same question.

"I love you too"

For 34 agonizing seconds-John counted, Sherlock said and did absolutely nothing. John was on the verge of thinking this was one huge misunderstanding. He didn't want to lose Sherlock as a friend, never minding the fact that it was Sherlock himself who started this amazing, brilliant, completely mad rollercoaster ride of courting in the first place.

Okay, so he was a little past the verge, he realized. Then Sherlock suddenly announced out of nowhere.

"I'm not sending Mycroft a fruit basket to thank him. He'd prefer cake. But if I send him cake I would be enabling a highly addictive, dangerous, self destructive behavior, and what kind of brother would I be if I-?"

John shut him up with a kiss. And made it a good one.

So all's well that ends well. Now the real tough part was convincing all the people whom he had convinced that he and Sherlock were not together, that they were in fact together.

Yes, together together.

A/N: For every review you give me, Sherlock kisses John. For every favorite/follow John kisses Sherlock. ;)

XX